


Surrounded by Splendid Things

by fushine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Hermione Granger, Desi Harry Potter, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Queen (the band not the monarch), Slow Burn, Some angst because of course, but overall I'd say this is pretty upbeat, gay thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27114274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fushine/pseuds/fushine
Summary: Harry and Draco meet, and part, and meet, and part, and meet again.Or:An uncomfortable truceA (mostly) accidental instance of stalkingA small set-backA breakup, a divorceOne year and three months of pining, interrupted briefly by a very big mistake.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	1. August, 1995/1998

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions racism and homophobia, but not in detail.

**August, 1995**

Harry can’t sleep, there’s a certain itch that gets under his skin sometimes, a refusal to quiet that has been with him since he can remember. Sometimes he can calm it by counting in his head, or trying to recall a particularly boring tidbit from History of Magic, but he often ends up lying in bed watching shadows move across the ceiling till morning.

Across from him Ron snores softly, his face tucked into the crook of one freckled arm. The silence in the rest of the room is oppressive and absolute, pressing in on Harry as he tries to will himself to sleep. When he can stand it no longer, he levels his body carefully from beneath the sheets, stepping quietly across the scratched wood floor. He tells himself that he’s going to get a glass of water and then go straight back to bed, but when he arrives on the landing of the first floor the kitchen is already occupied.

Sirius is leaning back in a chair with a bottle half-full of mead in front of him on the table. A muggle record player spins at its center, the volume turned down so that at first, Harry isn’t sure he can hear anything at all.

And then: _Look into my eyes and you’ll see I’m the only one._

The man’s voice is a gentle, a sound that ripples out around them to soften the dingy kitchen. Sirius has his eyes closed and he is carelessly twirling a snifter around on the wooden table with one tattooed, scarred hand. In the warm light he looks a little like the boy he must have been, wild and handsome.

The door creaks under Harry’s hand and Sirius opens his eyes, irritation flashing across his face at the interruption till he realises who it is. Harry expects a dismissal from this private moment, but his godfather surprises him. “Come on in then, and close that behind you.” His voice is slightly hoarse in a way that cannot be attributed entirely to drink.

“Have you ever heard this band before?” Sirius gestures at the album cover lying on the table as Harry takes a seat across from him - in the middle of a black background is a crest that looks a little like their house banners at school. A pair of lions frame a stylized chrome Q with yet another crown at its centre. A large white bird and a flaming crab float above it, and two fairy-like figures are beneath each lion, one sitting and the other standing. At the bottom in cursive it reads:

 **Queen**  
A Day at the Races

Sirius waves a hand and a second snifter floats toward him from down the table; he fills it a quarter of the way and slides it over to Harry. “Your mum got me listening to them, she was mad for their music. Lily was always the first to know about new music and was clever enough that she figured out how to play muggle records at school early on, made all of us listen to their albums over and over. This one came out in our fifth year. Remus and I - this song meant a lot to us.”

Harry nods, sips slowly on the mead. Every word is precious to him, each one a small dab of colour added to the image of his parents. Still, there is something that Sirius has come close to saying and it hangs between them, an important detail just out of reach. This song was _important_ to Sirius and Remus as boys - Harry knows there is a significance he isn’t quite understanding.

“The singer, Freddie Mercury, he died when I was still in Azkaban from...a muggle illness called AIDS.” Sirius looks at Harry carefully, as though for a flicker of understanding or recognition. Finding none, he relaxes. “Remus saved all my albums, and any of your mum’s he could recover. Lily would have wanted you to hear them, she was always singing Bohemian Rhapsody, dancing you around the flat.”

Sirius flicks his wand and the record stops, lifts off the player and slides back into its sleeve. He selects another album, this one with a group of four young men not unlike the Marauders themselves on its cover. He sends it floating gently onto the player, there is a moment of silence, and then voices crackle into perfect acapella harmony.

Neither says a word as the story unfolds, one of a young man’s poor choices and regrets that feels slightly too poignant, the voices rising dramatically till it seems as though there is an operatic chorus in the kitchen.

When the rock interlude begins, Sirius starts nodding his head rapidly to the music, tangled locks bouncing around his ecstatic face. Harry laughs and imitates him and they head bang in their chairs until they’re both dizzy and out of breath, euphoric in their shared enjoyment.

 _Nothing really matters, anyone can see, nothing really matters to me._ The man croons, the guitar fades out, and Sirius throws back the rest of his mead, then pours himself another glass.

Harry has never really listened to music that made him feel anything; it is almost never played at the Dursleys, aside from the carols Aunt Petunia puts on at Christmas, and no one at Hogwarts seems particularly devoted to it either. This might be the first song he has ever heard and enjoyed. The fact that it is with Sirius, that his mum loved this band, makes it all the more significant.

“You know, James was like a brother to me, but I loved your mum just as much.” Sirius says, as though he can tell what Harry is thinking. “Never a judgement about who a person was or where they came from, and she would not let anyone get away with prejudice. I think part of it came from being a muggleborn, since purebloods weren’t shy about their bias in those days, but she was involved in muggle politics as well. She came back September of our 7th year with a - what do you call it? When you break a bone and muggle healers put that thing on it?”

“A plaster cast?” Harry supplies, being personally quite familiar with this particular facet of muggle medicine.

“Yeah, one of those on her arm, and eventually we found out she’d been involved in a protest in muggle London against those muggles who hate people based on the colour of their skin.”

“Racists.” Harry supplies, being doubly familiar with them having grown up in the Durlsey household.

“James was furious that she had gotten herself injured and she tore a strip off him, told him that muggle or magical, she wasn’t about to live in a world where hatred was tolerated.”

“My dad didn’t like that she was protesting?”

“It’s not that - he loved Lily’s fierceness - but James always had a bit of an overprotective streak. It drove Lily mad, of course, because she was so independent.”

Harry is about to ask for more details when Remus pushes the door open with one hip, seemingly unaware of Harry’s presence. He’s carrying a brown takeaway bag and whistling softly; there’s a joviality to him that Harry has never seen before and the look he gives Sirius is so fond it makes Harry’s chest tighten. It’s obvious, suddenly, that this is an old ritual - the second snifter, the music too low for anyone to hear. 

“I got your favourite eggrolls, Pads, but you have to share this time.” Remus stops short when he sees Harry, flicks his glance over to Sirius and then back again. “Having a late night get together, are we?”

“I was just giving the boy a musical education.” Sirius says, gesturing at the albums on the table. “Lily would’ve.”

Remus raises his eyebrows at the mostly untouched snifter of mead in front of Harry, but his voice is gentle as he takes a seat. “You’re right, she would have.”

And he flicks his wand to turn up the volume.

**August, 1998**

Harry doesn't fully realise just what Sirius and Remus were to each other until the war is over and both men are dead.

He is alone at Grimmauld Place, trying to distract himself from the heady fog of grief that never seems to dissipate. He’s digging through a cupboard when he finds several dusty crates of albums he vaguely remembers tucking away during his time on the run with Hermione and Ron. It takes him only a little time to figure out how to set the player up in the kitchen, a mug of strong tea at his side.

As he pulls A Day at the Races out of the sleeve, a note flutters to the floor. It is worn, having been folded and re-folded, the paper thin with age.

_Pads,_

_Happy Seventeenth Birthday, I thought it was about time you had your own copy._

_Yours,_  
_(always, but you already knew that)_

_Moony_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two Queen songs mentioned are You Take My Breath Away and, of course, Bohemian Rhapsody. This isn’t a fic about Queen, per say, but they make more than one appearance.


	2. July, 1999

Perhaps it is due to alphabetization, or the fact that very few students have chosen to sit their N.E.W.T.s at such a late date, but on a hot day in early July Draco finds himself sitting his exams in the same Ministry classroom as Harry Potter. 

It has been a year since they’ve seen each other, and their last meeting was at Draco’s spectacularly uncomfortable trial. Potter thin and underslept, lurking like a Dementor at the back of the room with an auror guard around him to keep the reporters at bay. He had barely looked at Draco, gotten up to testify on his behalf, and then quietly left. Still, Draco knows he owes at least part of his freedom to Potter, and likely his mother’s as well. He had been given a sentence of probation and community work, Narcissa two months’ house arrest; it was better than they ever could have hoped.

A year has done wonders for Potter: his hair is trimmed close to his head and he has grown himself a beard. It has the slightly patchy look common in teenage facial hair, but suits his face tremendously well. His skin has the healthy look of someone who has spent a considerable amount of time outside, and Draco wonders if the rumours of his sabbatical in Spain might hold some weight afterall.

Potter nods at Draco when their eyes meet, formal but not hostile. It would still be enough to put Draco off if he hadn’t worked so hard preparing for this particular day. Despite his efforts at rehabilitating the Malfoy name through true philanthropic work (and court mandated community service in the Janus Thickney Ward) Draco is well aware that the Malfoy name is enough for most employers to reject him outright. It is no longer sufficient to simply do well, his achievements must stand above those of his peers so that he comes across as a desirable addition, someone who is worth the risk his reputation brings.

He forces himself to focus on the exam, not sparing a glance for the other side of the room where Potter is working diligently through his own. Draco almost forgets about him till somewhere around the third hour when one of the adjudicators asks Potter to cast a Patronus charm. Draco suspects that it is curiosity more than an actual test of skill, Potter's patronus having become synonymous with the wizard himself. 

Draco pauses for a moment as the silver apparition gallops around the room, coming so close that his robes flutter in its wake. It is impressive and somehow too personal at the same time, almost rude to request such a thing, and yet everyone does. Potter's adjudicators applaud, he manages an uncomfortable smile, and the stag fades away.

An hour later, Draco finishes his final paper and exits the classroom. Potter did not take the Arithmancy N.E.W.T and thus finished his test an hour previous, which is why Draco is surprised to find him sitting on a bench outside. He stands when he sees Draco.

“Malfoy?”

“Potter.” Draco’s heart thuds against his chest - he had sent a letter of apology months ago and received no response, assuming that Potter's silence spoke for itself. 

“How about a late lunch to celebrate finishing our N.E.W.Ts?” Potter says. “Somewhere in Muggle London?”

Taken aback, Draco can only stare at him, trying to process the offer.

Potter shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, suddenly reminiscent of a much younger boy. “Or not, forget I said anything.”

“No - no, wait!” Draco calls out, embarrassingly loud in the quiet hallway. Potter, who has turned and is about to walk away, pivots to look at him. Draco feels his face heat. “Lunch sounds good.”

They exit via Whitehall Gardens, walking along the Thames in near silence. Around them, Muggles crowd the streets - tourists, Draco realises, chuffed that he has been able to put his Muggle Studies N.E.W.T to use already. Potter surprises him by leading them to a café set just off the road on the edge of a large garden, nicer than anything Draco had anticipated. They choose a table on a terrace in the back, shaded by trees and sparsely populated, but not a word is exchanged between them till they’ve ordered.

“She was flirting with you.” Potter says once the server has left after depositing drinks on their table: a proper tea for Draco and a large, frothy drink for Potter that he calls a cappuccino.

Draco coughs against the liquid he has inhaled. “Unlikely.”

“I promise she was.” Potter grins and takes a large sip of his drink, froth catching in the hair above his lip.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway.” Draco says.

“Wouldn’t date a muggle?” There is a slight shift in Potter's tone, an almost imperceptible edge.

“Quite frankly, no.” Draco says, holding up a hand to stop Potter's next words. “And not for the reasons you’re thinking. I believe I would be rather more of a danger to any muggle than most wizards, given my family and background.”

“But if you met the right one, fell in love with her and couldn’t imagine living the rest of your life apart?”

“Is this some sort of test?” Draco demands, and when Potter shrugs, Draco heaves an audible sigh. “If I met and fell in love with a muggle then yes, I imagine that I would consider marrying them. However it would be selfishness on my part, cruelty even. Imagine finding out the man you love belonged to a family who considered you inferior? That he believed the same at one point in his life? I can’t think that I would stay with such a person. Not to mention that I would also have to explain what I am to them.”

“A wizard?”

“And a former Death Eater.” 

Potter looks as though he’s about to respond, but their server reappears, setting fish and chips before Draco (he couldn’t resist ordering the muggle delicacy) and a sandwich in front of Potter. The server lingers, smiling brightly at Draco. She asks if he wants more tea, how he’s enjoying his day, and it occurs to him that she might in fact be flirting. A shame, given that his proclivities swing solidly in the opposite direction, but it buoys him a little nonetheless.

Once she leaves, Potter appears to decide that their former topic of conversation is too fraught, because he veers wildly toward another. “What are you hoping to do, once you’ve got your N.E.W.T results?”

Draco munches thoughtfully on a chip. “I’d like to be a healer,” he says at last, expecting Potter to scoff.

“Interesting”. Potter takes a large bite of his sandwich and Draco dearly hopes he’s not about to speak with his mouth full.

“And you’ll be an Auror I suppose?” That is what everyone has said: Harry Potter has a paved road through the ministry leading straight to him becoming the youngest head of the DMLE in recorded history.

Potter shakes his head. “Nah, I thought I would, once, but last year gave me a taste of it and I don’t think I’m really cut out for the job. To be honest, the idea makes me feel a little ill.”

Draco nods, trying not to show his surprise. “You have time to figure out what you want and, I'd wager, plenty of options as well.” He tries not to let the bitterness creep into his tone but he must not have succeeded as Potter immediately changes the subject and asks how he enjoyed the Potions N.E.W.T.

Their conversation after this follows more neutral territory: the waves Granger is currently making at the ministry, their respective summer plans, Draco’s fish and chips. It’s awkward, as neither really knows how to be friendly with the other. Draco is glad when they both finish, and even more so when Potter does not order any pudding (he seems the type). They pay their bills and stand, hovering beside their table.

“Well.” Potter says. “Thanks for that. Closure, I suppose.”

Draco nods. “Best of luck going forward, then.”


	3. June, 2002

June, 2002

Harry does not mean to stalk Draco Malfoy around St. Mungo’s. 

What he had intended was to pop by the recently added midwifery wing for a quick visit with Fleur and Bill, meet the newest Weasley, then grab a bite before he has to floo back to Portsmouth with Dean for their afternoon lecture. 

He accomplishes the first task - Dominique has a head of strawberry blonde hair and still bears the slightly squashed look of a newborn, but Harry delights in how her entire hand curls around one of his fingers when he holds her. Being very familiar with new parents (the Weasley family has been productive since the war ended) he doesn’t overstay his welcome, and is on his way to the exit when he spots a familiar flash of white-blonde hair.

Harry stops short and tries to find it again in the crowd of healers clustered around reception. Just when he’s about to give up, someone exclaims “You’re a card, Malfoy!” and a pale head materializes from behind the desk, holding a sheaf of parchment triumphantly in the air.

Malfoy is wearing the pale orange robes of a first year healer, which strikes Harry as odd given he was talking about it as a career more than three years ago. His hair is less stiffly coiffed now, and he looks relaxed, confident.

He actually seems quite popular as well - one of the witches in the group reaches over to deliver a gentle slap to the back of his head and another throws her arm about his shoulders. All of them are laughing, and it’s a different sort than Malfoy’s laughter was in school, lighthearted and friendly in a way that completely transforms his face. Harry finds himself stepping into the shadow of a cabinet to watch as Malfoy makes a sweeping gesture with his hand and unfurls the parchment, though Harry is unwittingly far more focused on the way his lips curve into a smile and the pleased flush on his cheeks. 

A bell chimes and almost as one, the group looks toward a spot just out of sight behind the reception desk. Whatever they see launches them excitedly down the hall, chattering and jostling each other as they go.

Harry follows. He doesn’t mean to, only his feet make the decision ahead of his brain and by the time he realises what is happening he’s already crossed the atrium and gone down the corridor after them. Fortunately, he is never far from his invisibility cloak, which he pulls from his side bag where it is nestled between a large book on trauma guided practice and his overstuffed school notebook. Seconds later, and completely invisible, he rounds the corner and comes almost face to face with Malfoy. Harry’s heart thuds uncomfortably in his chest, but Malfoy’s gaze goes straight through him to the board on the wall behind, which lists attending healers, then back to a pale-faced witch who appears to be bleeding from one eye.

“Mary, can you summon Healer Lark? I suspect it’s a badly done hex. Gil, help me get her to a chair please. Kass, could you start the paperwork to admit her to spell damage?”

And everyone listens, springing to action as Malfoy and a broad shouldered wizard lead the witch over to a quiet corner of the room. Malfoy seems to radiate a competence utterly unlike the power he wielded in his father’s name at school; people do what he says because he is confident and smart, hardly a trace of panic in his features as he asks the witch questions while doing a series of complicated spells. 

Something stirs in Harry, a peculiar feeling he doesn’t recognise and thus attributes to jealousy. Only Malfoy could look this good as someone drips blood on the floor at his feet, with his slightly rumpled hair and the robes that seem to actually compliment his features when they should, by any rights, wash him out entirely. Harry wants...something. Maybe he wants to be Malfoy? He’s still reeling from that thought when he steps out of the way of a lime-robed healer and knocks into a rather large table of pamphlets, sending it skidding across the floor and into a burly wizard with tree roots growing out of his nostrils. 

“Who did that??” the man demands, springing to his feet and setting the roots dancing wildly about his chin.

“Quiet down!” an older witch beside him says admonishingly. 

“I will not be disrespected like this!” The man bellows, glancing wildly around the room.

“Oy, if you don’t stop yelling I’ll be disrespecting you in a minute.” Says a wizard who looks like he should not be making this sort of promise.

The room descends into chaos as tree-roots launches himself at the challenger, knocking into several people on his way over.

Harry takes this as his cue to exit, glancing over to see that Malfoy is utterly undisturbed and deep in conversation with a recently arrived healer. _There’s something strange here_ he thinks, but he doesn’t have time to ruminate on what it might be - Malfoy and the healer lead the witch away, and a glance at the clock on the wall reveals that Harry is about to be very late for class.


	4. October, 2004

October, 2004

Ernest is almost everything Draco has ever wanted in a boyfriend - dapper, intelligent, funny. True, Draco has never imagined he would be with a Hufflepuff, yet here he is, dating a man who keeps his striped yellow tie and prefect’s badge framed in the study. Despite this, Ernest has changed since their years at Hogwarts, transmuting the swotty attitude of his teen years into a successful career as a barrister in magical Britain. Even Narcissa approves, given that Ernest is from a pureblood family; they don’t speak like that anymore, of course, but Draco can read her well enough. Lucius wouldn’t have approved either way, but death has robbed him of an opinion.

They’re at Paddington station, Draco about to board a train that will begin his journey to Cardiff for a healer’s conference. Ernest has tried to dissuade him from taking muggle transportation, but Draco has always loved trains and the journey is short enough to be pleasant but not tedious.

“You’ve packed your papers?” Ernest asks, putting a hand on Draco’s waist and bending to kiss him before he can reply. Draco is not typically one for public displays of affection, however there’s something about Ernest that makes him want to show everyone that they are together. He deepens the kiss, leaning in, relishing the touch. He knows they look good together, with their differing shades of blonde (Ernest’s dark to Draco’s pale) and smart muggle suits, a fashion that has bled into the Wizarding World thanks in large part to the sudden post-war popularity of many of their peers.

After several moments, Draco becomes aware that his boyfriend’s attention has been diverted away from him and they break apart.

“Ernie MacMillan!” Says a voice that is far too close and recognisable. “Sorry to interrupt, I thought that was you and wanted to say hello. It’s been yonks hasn’t it?”

“Potter, good to see you.” Ernest sounds pleased to be acknowledged by Harry Potter so publicly, though as they’re in muggle London no one around them even knows to be impressed by it. Draco does not turn around and begins fiddling with the handle of his briefcase, hoping that Potter will realise he is interrupting an intimate moment and move on.

Unfortunately, Ernest is no mind reader and in one fell swoop he grabs Draco’s upper arm and twirls him around to face Potter. “You remember Draco Malfoy, don’t you?”

Potter goggles for a moment, seeming to find difficulty in believing that it is Draco who Ernest has been snogging. For his part, Draco nods a quick hello and turns to give Ernest a final, cursory peck on the lips.

“I must get going, I’ll see you on Monday.”

Trying to shake off this unfortunate encounter, he strides toward the train without a backward glance. Draco settles himself at one of the first class tables on the train, spreading parchment out over the surface so he can read over his address for the thousandth time. He had been utterly shocked to be nominated by his peers in the program as a presenter at the Healers of the Magical UK conference. His mentor, Ahmet, had praised Draco’s in-depth study reverse-engineering the protean charm to alter the effects of magical curse marks. When Draco had insisted his research was purely selfish (he wanted the Dark Mark gone from his body) Ahmet had told him that most people who became master healers ended up helping themselves in some way as well.

In the end, Draco’s studies had worked to neutralise the mark, enough that he was able to cover it with an utterly meaningless tattoo of a fish. It was done at a muggle shop, and the sight of Voldemort’s handiwork disappearing under the skilled machine of the woman who ran it had given Draco a special thrill.

He has just finished his opening paragraph when the train begins to move and, in the same instant, someone sits down across from him. He knows without looking up that it is Potter.

“‘lo Malfoy.”

Internally, Draco sighs - he has no idea why Potter is at all interested in conversing with him, considering the awkwardness of their last interaction five years ago. Perhaps he has taken it upon himself to make sure Draco is keeping true to the terms of his parole. Or it is just Potter being his usual infuriating self. Accepting what fate has dealt, he raises his head slowly.

Now that he has a chance to really look him over, Draco notices the beard Potter was previously sporting is gone and he appears to be trying out styling gel on his curly hair, fringe slightly over-long to hide the scar. His glasses have gotten an update as well: though the frames are still round they are a lighter colour, slightly thinner with silver detailing at the hinges. He wears a black sports coat over a fern coloured button-down which highlights his eyes and compliments the warm brown of his skin. The shirt is tucked into a pair of slightly wrinkled black slacks that are perhaps a bit too baggy to truly be called stylish; even so, the effect is casual and attractive.

“Hello Potter.”

“I almost didn’t recognise you back there.” Potter says, which sounds like a lie, though Draco has made attempts at forging his own sartorial path. He’s quite proud of his travel outfit, a navy Burberry trench over a casual charcoal suit made by one of the designers popping up around the newly reformed, and slightly gentrified, Knockturn Alley. Draco’s tie matches his trench, and his white dress shirt is crisp; Ernest places a huge emphasis on style as well, which validates Draco’s obsession. He is tempted to reach up and run his hand through his hair; he has been wearing it in a short pompadour for the past few years (something his muggle-born barber calls “timeless style”) but he knows such attention would only be detrimental to its overall look.

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment on my dress or a comment on how I’ve aged.” Draco says archly.

“The first one. I didn’t know you were seeing Ernie.”

“How could you?” He wishes desperately that Potter would leave him to his speech.

“I just hadn’t realized you -”

“As much as I enjoy the thought of you clumsily trying to dance around the question, Potter, I’m afraid I haven’t the patience today. Yes, I’m gay. Yes, I’m dating Ernest.”

“Ernest” Potter smirks “when we were in school he went by Ernie.”

“I’m aware. However, as ‘Ernie’ is befitting only those under nineteen and over fifty, he now goes by his full name and has for years.”

“You haven’t been together that long, have you?” Potter produces a thermos from his bag and pours tea into the attached mug. He looks around, then pulls a muggle rubber out as well and discreetly transfigures it into another cup, filling it before he slides it across to Draco.

“No-o” Draco says haltingly, trying not to give Potter an in.

“Only a few months, right?”

“Keeping an eye on me, are you?” Draco has a can of vimto in his briefcase, and a packet of crisps (all part of his muggle train ritual) but he won’t allow Potter the satisfaction of seeing him consume them, so he gives in and sips from the mug. It’s not entirely Draco’s taste, and there is a slightly unpleasant flavour from the transfigured rubber, but it is hot and he is pleasantly surprised to discover that Potter is not the type to add sugar.

“No, I can just tell.”

“You cannot.”

“I can. The snogging, him seeing you to the train station. Those are new relationship things.”

“If that’s the case, I pity your fiancée.”

Potter laughs. “Now who’s keeping and eye on who?”

Draco feels heat rise in his cheeks; it’s not true, of course, just that he can barely enter a magical establishment without hearing about Potter. If he reads the occasional headline he’s hardly to blame, they’re everywhere, especially since the announcement of Potter’s engagement to Weasley a few weeks ago. Even his cohort - all younger than Draco because he had purposely waited two years to start so as not to enter with anyone who would remember him very well from Hogwarts - is obsessed with Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley’s upcoming wedding. When they found out he was in Potter’s year, that he knew the man, they were beside themselves. “I can’t read the Prophet without seeing something about your love life.”

Potter’s smile dims somewhat. “Yeah, I know.” There’s a moment of awkward silence and then “Do you think you’ll marry Ernie?”

“Neither of us is in a place for that at the moment - besides, we’ve only been seeing each other for a few months.”

“But you must have some idea of where you see things going?”

Invasive questions aside, Draco does, in fact, have a very good idea of how he would like the future to unfold. He has imagined them living in Ernest’s flat, a bright second story on the newly popular Gryphen’s row in Mayfair’s hidden magical subsection. They will make love in Ernest’s enormous king-size bed, eat meals together in the cheery dining room; Draco will study for school while Ernest works on his latest case. After some time, they will get a kneazle, have dinner parties where their Slytherin and Hufflepuff friends commingle with ease.

Draco has always planned things out well in advance of their occurrence, it is how he had convinced himself at eleven that Harry Potter would be his best friend (playing on the same Quidditch Team, going to Hogsmeade together, being the two most popular boys in their year). Given the deeply disappointing result of that particular fantasy he has attempted to curb this tendency in adulthood, but occasionally allows himself to indulge - a man has to have some idea of what he wants, after all.

“I don’t know, Potter. Why the sudden and overly-familiar interest in my love life?”

Potter shrugs. “Just making conversation. Where are you headed?”

“Cardiff.”

“Why?”

“A healer’s conference.”

“On the train?”

Draco’s head is beginning to ache from irritation. “I usually enjoy the ride,” he snips coldly.

Potter blinks, as though he is confused by the hostility. “Right, makes sense. There’s something about it that feels like the first day of school all over again.”

Draco doesn’t want to admit that this is exactly how he feels as well, though he does rather wish there were a trolly of magical sweets to roll past and distract Potter.

“Why are you on the train?”

“Oh…” Potter trails off, raises a hand to run it through his hair, then seems to remember it is full of product and thinks better of it. “To be honest, I saw you get on and was curious.”

Draco's irritation flares at this admission, but he has learned self-control in the years since school. He wordlessly begins to gather his papers, opening his briefcase with a decisive click to deposit them inside, closing it with perhaps a little too much force. He collects his jacket from where he has neatly folded it on the seat beside him, then slides out from behind the table.

“What are you-” Potter tries to rise, bashes his leg against the table in a way that causes him to swear under his breath, and collapses back into a sitting position.

“Finding a new seat. Please do not follow me.” Draco turns to make his way down the aisle.

“Wait, Malfoy, come back!” Potter calls.

Draco pauses, and turns to look at him. “I meant what I said, Potter. Kindly leave me alone.”


	5. April, 2009

Pansy and Daphne are in the process of ordering drinks when Draco arrives, out of breath and weighed down by several bags that he has not had time to shrink. It isn’t exactly dignified, but he prides himself on punctuality and is nearly fifteen minutes overdue.

“Sorry I’m late.” He huffs, sitting down hard and turning to the server. “Could I taste the Benoit Courault cab franc from 2018?”

Pansy mutters something about wine snobs under her breath as Daphne launches back into her story about a recent date gone awry.

Draco half-listens as his friends chat over their respective days - usually he is engaged and curious about their lives, but a recent and all-consuming change in his own is distracting, and he dreads having to share it. Still, they are bound to notice eventually and there will be hell to pay if they don’t find out from him.

Draco waits till the server has come and gone before forcing the words out into the silence as his friends sip their respective drinks.

“Ernest and I broke up.” 

Pansy chokes on her gimlette and begins to cough.

“What?” Daphne looks quickly at Pansy to make sure she isn’t about to die before turning back to Draco. “When did you break up?”

“Last Friday.” Draco downs his entire glass of wine unceremoniously, then makes a practised study of the menu, though the food aspect of their lunches has never really been a priority.

“Are you alright?” Daphne asks.

“Of course he’s not alright” Pansy answers before Draco can speak “They were together for five years, a person does not just break up with their live-in partner of five years and come out of it unscathed.”

“I’m fine.” He says, to looks of disbelief. “I am. We’ve been growing apart for some time and I realized suddenly that we wanted different things.”

“What things?” Pansy demands.

“I’m nearly thirty-”

“In two years!”

“- and I simply realized that I deserved more than a lukewarm relationship. Ernest and I weren’t happy, he’s always busy and I’m always busy, we barely see each other. I’ve had a week to get used to being single and the longer we’re apart, the more I feel as though it was the right decision.”

“You know” Daphne, ever ready with a goblet-half-full suggestion, says brightly “I have the perfect man to set you up with. He’s charming, well read, on the board of several charities. He was a few years ahead of us in school and he’s a wizard liaison for Gringotts. His name’s-”

“Charles Selwyn” Draco finishes for her “You set us up six years ago, Daph, and it didn’t work out terribly well.”

“Fine, fine, what about-”

“I’m not ready to date anyone new yet.” Draco says firmly, catching the server’s eye and gesturing for another drink. “There has to be a period of adjustment, mourning, and figuring out a custody arrangement for Tiberius.”

“I should think the plus side of breaking up with Ernest is never having to see that little monster again.” Pansy says.

He pinches her arm in retaliation - truthfully, Tiberius has not worked out the way he’d imagined. Endlessly grumpy and with a preference for shitting in Draco’s loafers, and his loafers alone, the kneazle’s affections lie solely with Ernest. Draco is really only considering partial custody because it feels like the right thing to do, seeing how he had been the one who wanted a pet in the first place.

“Honestly Draco, you need to learn when to give up on a lost cause.” Pansy says loftily, and Draco knows he is about to get a lecture on her relationship with the man she dated before marrying Theo.

“That’s why I broke up with Ernest.” He says, attempting to circumvent the story.

“So let him keep Tiberius then.”

“When you adopt an animal you make a commitment-”

“That kneazle hates you with its entire heart.” Pansy counters, poking one of her long nails vengefully into his side.

“Do you really want to see Ernest over and over when you meet to exchange Tiberius?” Daphne asks reasonably. Draco doesn’t - he never wants to see Ernest again, in fact - but he’s a little too proud to admit that he’s hurt by the whole ordeal.

“We’re both adults.” He says firmly. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

\---

Harry and Dean sit in the stands at the Ilkley Moor Quidditch Stadium, ostensibly watching the Appleby Arrows play the Ballycastle Bats, though in reality they have gotten quite drunk off firewhiskey and are both complaining about their relationships with one Ginny Weasley. Dean has just finished an extended rant about sixth year that skirts around the fact that Harry started dating Ginny quite quickly after she and Dean broke up, and now Harry’s grievances have taken center stage.

“She came home, right-” the crowd cheers and Harry’s attention is momentarily diverted from his monologue. He squints unnecessarily at the pitch (they are in the private box with unobstructed views) but can’t quite make out what has happened. “- and she tells me she’s moving out. I’m there, cooking dinner _for her_ and she says that we’re not right for each other.”

“That’s not on.” Dean says, taking a healthy swig of firewhiskey and raising his hands in a cheer as Quigley, the Bats’ beater, manages to knock the Appleby Arrows’ chaser nearly off her broom with a well-timed bludger.

“Not even the worst part, mate. Then there’s a knock on the bloody door and it’s the whole bloody team, come to help her move. Turns out she had her things packed and ready to go.”

Dean looks at Harry with bleary confusion. “She was all packed and you didn’t have a clue? You live together.”

This was Hermione’s sticking point as well. “Oh Harry.” She’d said, pursing her lips and trying to sound diplomatic. “You didn’t notice any of her things were gone?”

“I’m busy!” Which has been his only excuse since the event a fortnight ago. “I can’t always make it home till very late - you know what it’s like, we work for the same madman.”

The madman in question is Kingsley Shacklebolt, a wizard mostly undeserving of Harry’s ire. He’s also the one whose box seats they are occupying and whose firewhiskey they are slowly diminishing, but Harry is too preoccupied with self-pity to mind what he says.

“Harry, listen.” Dean puts a hand on his shoulder. “If you can’t tell that your wife has packed up all her belongings and is getting ready to move out, maybe that’s a sign you’re having problems in your marriage.”

Of course they have been, Harry isn’t foolish enough to think they’re perfectly happy. To begin with, they haven’t had sex in approximately a year and a half, though Harry has been attributing this to the fact that both of them work demanding jobs which frequently take them out of the country. 

Then there’s the fact that Ginny has this odd insecurity about his attraction to her. It’s completely incongruous with the rest of her personality, she’s practically become a feminist icon in the years since she joined the Harpies, but this one little sticking point has a tendency to balloon when she’s had a bad game or is feeling stressed. Combined with Harry’s particularly gormless inability to tell when she’s upset, it has been the cause of more than a few heated arguments. 

Harry sighs internally - alright, he’s not happy, and clearly neither is she. But he still doesn’t know why they have to break up instead of working through it. Ginny had said that she didn’t want them to hold each other back. What had she meant by that? 

Luckily, Dean is too absorbed in the game to expect a reply.

On the pitch, the seekers both spot the snitch at the same time and dive toward it - Colin Ashcomb, of the Bats, throws himself forward slightly, arm outstretched. Harry and Dean lean forward as well, along with the rest of the stadium, waiting breathlessly to see who will end the game. Ashcomb is lithe but strong, and Harry watches in fascination as his muscled thighs clench around the broom nestled firmly between them. Harry has been a big fan since Ashcomb began playing for the team, following the man’s career in newspaper articles where it often appears next to Ginny’s and, occasionally, his own. It’s no secret that part of his popularity hinges on the fact that he’s handsome, so Harry doesn’t feel it’s odd that he is appreciative of Ashcomb’s good looks.

Till now. Because as Harry watches the other man strain toward the snitch, sweat beading on his face, he feels his mouth go dry. As Ashcomb’s fingers close over the tiny golden ball, a latent realization finally pops through Harry's hazy mind like a cork. 

Oh.

Oh no. 


	6. May 2009

**May 2009**

Draco is browsing Flourish & Blotts with Daphne on a warm Saturday morning in late May. They’ve just enjoyed a lovely breakfast at one of the new cafes that has sprung up in the wake of the war. He’s infinitely grateful that he _can_ walk around Diagon Alley - it might not have been possible ten years ago, but he has worked hard to redeem himself, donated and volunteered and been as up front as possible about his mistakes. He’s pleased to say that these days he’s relatively anonymous, a hard-earned distinction his younger self would have loathed.

“I should head out” Daphne says, appearing beside him with Parvati Patil's newest romance novel tucked into the crook of her arm. “I have a hair appointment at ten and...Draco...is that Harry Potter starting at you from the magical maladies section?”

Draco heaves a sigh of deep frustration and turns. It is indeed Harry Potter, looking rumpled but somehow still attractive in jeans and a Ballycastle Bats t-shirt. He's wearing the beard again, though better filled out ten years on and neatly trimmed; he also appears to have abandoned his attempts at using gel so that his hair falls in soft curls just below his ears.

“He’s looking _good_.” Daphne says appreciatively. “I wish I could stick around to see why he’s been staring at you for the past twenty minutes, but I’ve got to dash.” She kisses Draco on the cheek and is gone before he can protest.

Which is, of course, Potter’s cue to approach.

“Hi Malfoy.” He says, a little uncertainly.

“Potter.” Draco searches for something to say and lands awkwardly on “how’s married life treating you?”

It’s the wrong choice- Potter’s face falls - but after a moment he answers quietly. “I’m getting divorced, actually.”

This is surprising news, not least of all because it hasn’t hit the papers yet. “I’m sorry to hear that I - I’ve actually only recently broken up with Ernest.” Over a month ago, but the wound is still fresh.

“Oh.” Potter looks around to see if anyone is eavesdropping. “I’m sorry too. Weird it happened around the same time, isn’t it?”

“It was long overdue, to be honest.” Draco says and then, surprising himself “how are you managing?”

Perhaps it is this question that prompts Potter to ask him to tea, though it could be simple loneliness; as Potter reveals how he found out his marriage was over on a quiet Sunday afternoon three weeks previous, it becomes apparent that he has spent the intervening weeks in solitude. When he finally finishes detailing the events (including a fantastic impression of Gwenog Jones trying to console him as the Harpies shrunk and carried his wife’s boxes out of their home) Draco realises that Potter is feeling completely at sea. Even the Golden Trio is no longer functioning properly, Weasley having been distant since his sister broke things off with Potter, and Granger quite busy with a big project at work.

“I understand, I guess.” Potter finishes. “I wasn’t the best husband, too busy all the time with my job, especially in the early years while we worked to set up the department.”

“What exactly is it that you do?” Draco knows that Harry works for the ministry in a newer department, and that it has something to do with children. 

Potter’s face lights up in a way Draco has never imagined it could in his presence.

“Well, I work for the Magical Youth Services division of the ministry. It was part of Kingsley's plan for his first year as minister. It’s shocking there really wasn’t anything like this already, given the amount of children orphaned by the first war, but I think that was due to the fact that most of them came from ancient families - like Neville - and they stepped in to take care of the child. No one ever really considered the muggleborn children who were orphaned and grew up with no knowledge of their abilities.”

“Like you.”

“Exactly. Our division looks after the wellbeing of all children in magical Britain as a whole, with a specific focus on those without parents, including children who are muggle born. All of us, even the purebloods, are educated at muggle universities as Social Workers for four years before we do any field work, and at the same time we’re also doing magical classes that compliment those skills. We number about twenty-five all told, with five of us being active, seven about to complete their degrees, and the rest in varying stages of their education. We take on cases and field them to the appropriate departments or see them through ourselves.”

“And you’re head of the department?”

“Co-head - Dean and I were the first people to complete the program so it was essentially by default. Before this, the DMLE took on any reports of orphans or child abuse, but they’re not very well trained in the matter and quite frankly did more harm than good. What is essentially lacking from the magical world is any sort of understanding of intersectionality. There’s next to no social support, just utter death on one end and the Janus Thickney ward on the other.” Potter stops, grins awkwardly. “Sorry, I’m pretty passionate about this but I don’t mean to talk your ear off.”

“It’s fine.” More than fine, really. Draco has been enjoying himself, listening to Potter speak. It reminds him of when Ernest first started practising law and was determined to represent every person in magical Britain should they need a barrister. While Ernest’s enthusiasm has waned considerably over the years, it’s clear that Potter has both a personal and professional attachment to his job.

“And you became a healer.” Potter says, though it isn’t a question. 

“I did.” 

“And you broke up with Ernest.”

“I guess it was mutual, really. I - it’s sort of stupid.” He takes a sip of tea that he doesn’t really want to fill the silence and stop himself from speaking.

“I bet it’s not.” Potter’s voice is sincere and low, his expression kind. It might be this fact alone (when will Potter ever look at him in such a friendly manner again?) that prompts Draco to continue.

“We used to joke that we were the perfect pair, and I suppose we were in the beginning, the two of us and our kneazle Tyberius. But I became busier with school and then the clinic, and Ernest’s practice took off. It got to a point where I would barely see him in passing. And Tiberius…”

“Not the faithful companion you had hoped?”

“He defecated in my shoes. Consistently and with malice.” 

Harry chokes on his own laughter.

“It started to feel like we were roommates” Draco continues, ignoring this undignified behaviour while taking secret delight in having been its cause. “Then next door neighbours. Finally, I realised it had been months since we’d even eaten a meal together. That’s when I knew that we weren’t partners anymore, not really. So I sat down with him and laid out what I was willing to sacrifice - extra rotations at the clinic, every second week of lunches with Pansy and Daphne, things like that. And he...wasn’t. He didn’t want to. So we ended things.”

“You seem to be very at peace with it.” Harry says, scrutinising Draco closely. “I didn’t feel nearly this calm when Gin ended things.”

“You really had no idea something was wrong?”

The other man sighs, takes a sip of his now cold tea, and makes a face. “No, I knew, but I was pretending it didn’t matter, that we were just in a bad period. She’s Ginny, for Merlin’s sake, she waited for me through the war, she couldn’t wait this out either?”

“Eventually you get tired of waiting.” Draco says, putting to words the painful lesson of his own recently failed relationship.

There are a few moments of silence while they sit, lost in their own private thoughts. It’s not as awkward as Draco might have imagined, perhaps even companionable.

“Did you know you were gay in school?” Potter asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

Draco, who had his gay awakening thanks in part to the way Potter looked in his Quidditch uniform, splutters indignantly for a moment at the sudden change of topic. “Yes, I suppose. Sort of.”

“When did you come out?”

“Sometime after my twentieth birthday.” Draco tries to gauge if Potter is about to make fun of him, but can’t find any malice in the question. 

“And it - no one made a big deal of it?”

“Well, my mum certainly did. She had high hopes I’d marry a nice witch and produce heirs that would lead our family name back to the cradle of prestige where she felt we belonged. Once she realised that wasn’t going to happen, she settled for being happy that Ernest was, at least, a pureblood.” Draco sees irritation flash across Potter’s face. “She’s finding it difficult to give up old ways of thinking that helped her survive - I'm not saying she's right, but it is very ingrained. We got past the gay business, and we’re working on the whole blood purity nonsense now.”

Potter shakes his head. “That’s a shame, ‘cause I like your mum. She sends me a card on my birthday, did you know?”

Draco can’t actually imagine his mother sending Potter birthday cards - Narcissa is not a sentimental woman by nature. “No she doesn’t.”

“She does, every year since, you know, the Battle. Always some inoffensive pastoral scene with exactly four words, ‘Best Wishes on Your Birthday’ and then her name. Except for the first one, which had a short letter apologising for her part in everything.”

“She doesn’t even give _me_ birthday cards.” Draco says indignantly.

“I was surprised - I mean, I get a lot of cards because” Harry waves vaguely at himself “but I have this sorting spell that puts the ones from people I know in their own pile, and every year there’s one from your mum.”

Draco contemplates this for a moment, then his brain registers the other part of Potter’s revelation - his mother’s apology letter. Draco had written one himself, and assumed that the odd lunch following their exams was Potter’s way of acknowledging it. Still, he’s older now, a better person with more gumption than he had at nineteen. “On the subject of apologies” he begins, but Potter shakes his head.

“I got your letter, you don’t have to again after all these years.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to say the words out loud.”

Potter purses his lips as though he’s about to object, then seems to think better of it and nods.

Draco straightens his back and meets Potter’s eyes. “I apologise, Potter, for being an insufferable blood purist as well as the part I played in the Battle of Hogwarts. As I said in the letter, I’ve made a promise to myself to set my life on a path that not only passively causes no harm but actively contributes to helping others.”

“Apology accepted.” Potter says quickly, sensing correctly that Draco will go on if he is allowed. “Though I think if we’re going to be friends you’d better call me by my given name.”

“Do you honestly think mediocre tea and shared misery makes us friends?"

Harry grins. “Well, yeah, I think we could be.”

\---

**+44 303 123 7300**

6:10pm: thks fr the sympthtic ear 2day

**Draco**

6:15pm: Potter?

**+44 303 123 7300**

6:15pm: hrry membr??

_+44 303 123 7300 saved as Harry Potter_

**Draco Malfoy**

6:16:pm: Tell me, Harry, is your spelling always this atrocious

or have you made an exception in my honour?

**Harry Potter**

6:17pm: t’s my moble, haf the bttns wrk hlf th time

**Draco Malfoy**

6:30pm: This is intolerable.

**Harry Potter**

6:30pm: :0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I re-wrote this 2x and still am not exactly where I want to be with it.


	7. June 2009

### Chapter 7 - June 2009

“You are terrible at this.” Draco can’t keep the glee from his voice - he hadn’t expected to trounce Harry so thoroughly on their first go. “Weren’t you raised by muggles? Shouldn’t it be easier for you?”

Harry groans and re-adjusts his grip. “That doesn’t mean I know how to do this! Neglectful childhood, remember? Besides, you’re clearly cheating.” He twists his hand, sending the line of little green figures twirling, but it’s not enough to stop the ball Draco has shot toward his goal.

“That’s 5-0 in my favour!” Draco looks around at the other patrons for support, but as it’s mid-afternoon on a Monday most of them are regulars who have no interest in table football. “That means I get to pick what we do tonight.”

“Only because you cheat!” Harry exclaims. “If you make me go to another terrible film like that one last week-”

“No, I’m saving our next movie outing for that vampire one.”

"Merlin." Harry shakes his head. “What shall we do with the rest of our evening, then?”

For a moment, their eyes hold and Draco feels something, a small flutter of excitement. He dismisses it almost instantly, having learned early on in his gay career that falling for straight men is never a good idea. He can’t do anything about the fact that he has found Harry attractive since school, or that when Harry looks at him he occasionally feels as though he’s eaten a fizzing whizzbee.

But these aren’t _real_ feelings, they’re just sexual frustration wearing a romantic disguise. He needs to pull, not hit on his new friend. Unfortunately he has given up every free night this week to see Harry, so opportunities for any other socialization have been non-existent. Draco makes a promise that he will, at the very least, have a decent wank this evening and then attempt to make a plan with some of the friends he only seems to see when they are all single and need company for the gay bar.

“Let’s get something to eat."

\---  
  


Somehow they end up buying muggle street food, though Draco isn’t sure how Harry manages to transfigure his desire for a proper meal into takeout. They wander through a busy market, Harry eating a kebab as he weaves expertly through the crowd, occasionally stopping to look at something that catches his eye, and Draco trying to consume a hotdog without dropping ketchup on his shirt. It’s silly and a little overwhelming, but he enjoys himself nonetheless.

As the afternoon wears on, they stroll around the neighbourhood, chatting aimlessly till they find themselves beside a primary school that appears to be hosting a carnival in its car park. A flock of brightly coloured tents flap in the breeze and families wander around, competing for prizes, eating candyfloss, and having their faces painted. The noise level is loud but joyous, and they are just about to walk on when a small voice calls out:

“Harry! Harry!” It belongs to a little girl who is charging toward them, her glossy black curls bouncing. She has her face painted like a cat’s, white whiskers and a pink nose standing out against the dark brown of her skin. Harry turns around and Draco can see his face fill with happiness.

“Sayeda!” He bends down to her level and lets her hug him. “Is this your school?”

“Uh huh! Are you going to go to the carnival, Harry?”

A couple makes their way over, the woman’s dark curls slightly looser than Sayeda’s framing thick-lashed eyes and light brown cheeks. She is arm in arm with a man Draco assumes is her husband, his skin a similar shade as his daughter’s, hair and beard going grey. They’re older than most parents with a child this age, but they exude an energy that is almost palpable. “Harry” the woman says “so lovely to see you again.” 

“Fran, Amani, it’s been too long.” He raises to shake their hands. “Are you enjoying Hampstead and the new home?”

Amani nods “The new place is fantastic, much closer to Yeda’s school and the ministry. I’m doing a project with them and Fran decided to take a sabbatical from the university to be a stay at home parent.” 

“We wanted to make sure we spent as much time together as possible before Sayeda starts her first year at school.” Fran’s accent is American, a curiosity for Draco who has never met one in person before. “It’s going to be so odd with my _mija_ at home.”

“I’ll come back all the time, amá.” Sayeda promises solemnly, then to Harry. “Amá and Baba want me to stay at Hogwarts on weekends for the first year and then we’ll decide if I want to come home on weekends.”

Fran and Amani look quickly at Draco.

“Sorry, I’ve been rude.” Harry pulls him forward by the elbow. “This is my friend, Draco Malfoy. We went to school together. Draco, this is Francisca and Amani.” The other two adults visibly relax, but Sayeda leaps forward and seizes the hand Draco has extended to her parents.

“Were you really at Hogwarts? What house were you in? Gryffindor like Harry? Did you play Quidditch?”

“‘Yeda, you’re going to overwhelm him.” Fran chides gently. “My apologies, Draco, she gets so excited when she meets people who are like us, since we spend most of our time outside the community. It doesn’t help that Amani’s parents sent him to Uagadou and I went to Castelobruxo, so Sayeda has no one to ask about Hogwarts.”

“It’s quite alright.” Draco can’t help but be charmed by Sayeda’s enthusiasm. “I was in Slytherin. Yes, I played Quidditch against Harry and -” he leans in conspiratorially “- I beat him at it a couple of times.”

“Don’t believe a word he says, Sayeda.” Harry cries, all mock-outrage, with a sly wink at the end that sends the girl into a fit of giggles.

“How’s Ginny doing?” Amani asks.

There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence. Harry rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Actually, Ginny and I split up.” 

“Oh Harry.” Fran reaches for his hand. “I’m so sorry. I feel like we’ve lost touch with all the change over the past few months. I wish I’d known.”

“You’ll have to come for dinner now that we’re settled in the new place.” Amani says and then, to Draco’s surprise “You as well, Draco, if you think you’re up for an adventure through Mexican-Sudanese fusion.”

“Don’t let him scare you.” Harry’s hand is suddenly on Draco’s shoulder, a comforting and confusing weight. “Their buñuelo kisra is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Fran studies them closely, her eyes flitting from one to the other. “We should set something up in the next couple of weeks. Do you still have that ancient mobile of yours, or has it finally given up the ghost?”

“Actually, Draco made me upgrade, so I’m now fully capable of sending messages with all their words intact.” 

“Oh did he?” Again, the searching look. “Well, send us a message and we’ll arrange something.” She puts her arm around Sayeda, who has begun to lean against her. “This one has crammed herself full of candy floss, and I’m afraid that if we don’t get some real food into her soon she’ll crash from all the sugar. Lovely meeting you, Draco.” 

“Agreed.” Amani clasps Draco’s hand, then Harry’s. “Let’s not be strangers.”

“I’ll see you later Sayeda.” Harry says, bending down again so he’s eye level. “I can’t wait to hear all about your adventures over dinner.”

“Bye Harry, Bye Draco!” A huge yawn escapes Sayeda’s mouth. “When you come over I’ll introduce you to Azriel.”

“Her new cat.” Fran explains.

“I can’t wait!” He exchanges a warm hug with Fran and then Amani before the family walks on down the street. Harry and Draco pause a moment, watching them together, Sayeda between her parents with Fran’s arm still across her shoulders.

“Best thing I’ve ever had a hand in.” Harry is watching them with over-bright eyes.

“Was Sayeda a client of yours? Or is that rude to ask?” Draco looks around to make sure none of her schoolmates can overhear.

“No, it's okay, they're very open about adoption. ‘Yeda was orphaned at a young age.” Harry explains as they begin to walk again. “Her parents were muggles and she was in muggle care for her early years - she was my first kid right out of school. It was difficult finding her a family because we didn’t have a lot of magical people who wanted to adopt, and we try to put children in homes with at least one parent who has a similar racial or cultural identity. But then Fran and Amani came along - she’s a professor at the Hemlock Collegiate and he works on magical human rights issues. They met in America and moved back here to be close to Amani’s family - his parents actually came from a town close to where Sayeda’s mum grew up. They’re older and they were usually more of a temporary home for children, but when they met Sayeda we all knew they were meant to be a family.”

“That’s-” Draco isn’t sure how to express what he’s feeling. “I’m impressed by what you’ve chosen to do, Harry.”

He’s rewarded with an embarrassed smile and again, there’s that odd feeling in his stomach when their eyes meet that causes Draco to deliver a stern internal admonition to himself.

“How do you feel about ice cream?” Harry asks, breaking their gaze and pointing at a corner shop with a brightly painted sign.

Draco laughs “I’m willing to be talked into it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me the OCs, I love a cute family dynamic.


	8. July, 2009

“Don’t tell me you hadn’t read any comics, ever? Not even those awful Martin Miggs ones?” Harry cradles the mobile between his ear and shoulder as he tries to put together a sandwich. 

On the other end, Draco laughs.

“Never. Can you imagine what my father would have said?” 

Harry thinks it’s funny that Draco has chosen this topic as the one that would most scandalise Lucius Malfoy, and not the fact that the two of them are having their conversation on cellular telephones. Or that Draco is the one who scoffed at Harry’s outdated model, took him to the shop and helped him purchase a newer one, then taught him how to use it. Really, the more Harry learns about Draco the more he thinks he should properly introduce him to Arthur Weasley. 

“You’re missing out. Even my neglectful childhood had some comics - I used to sneak Dudley’s after he was done with them.”

Draco makes a disapproving noise. “I hardly think it has been detrimental to my growth”.

Harry drops a piece of cheese on his shoe and considers what Draco would say if he still used it for his sandwich - the thought of Draco’s horrified reaction delights him as he picks it up and puts it on the bread. “We’ll go to a comic shop, you’ll see what I’m talking about, I promise.”

“You’ll have to put quite a lot of effort in for me to-” There’s a crash on Draco’s end and he swears quietly.

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, just-” a sharp intake of breath and another muttered profanity “- my new owl. She’s got a destructive streak.”

“Have you ever owned a pet that didn’t thirst for your blood?”

“I prefer animals with a bit of personality.”

“There’s personality and then there’s the wild beasts you seem to acquire.” Harry jokes through a bite of sandwich, recalling the many stories Malfoy has told about his horrible kneazle.

“Speaking of wild beasts, are you actually talking to me with your mouth full?”

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t eat breakfast and I’ve just enough time to pop home before legging it out to Brighton for quarter to one.”

“It’s half twelve now, you’re going from Islington to Brighton in the span of fifteen minutes? You’d have to apparate at least twice.”

“Portkey - it’s likely I’ll be bringing a child back with me.” Harry can’t help the fatigue in his voice. The situation is too familiar, a mugle aunt raising her magical niece to be a servant; she’s received numerous warnings about school attendance to no avail, and now the child has been absent for more than two weeks. Harry has a long afternoon ahead of him.

“Is it that tough one you were talking about the other day?” 

“That’s it, yeah. Likely I’ll have to uproot her from school and everything she’s ever known to put her in a foster home here, as we’ve none in Brighton at the moment. In the end it’s her that’s punished twice over, losing her parents and then all her friends.”

“Feels a bit too familiar?” Draco asks quietly.

“Except I didn’t have any friends to miss and couldn’t wait to leave.” Harry flicks his wands and the dishes clear themselves of crumbs before floating back to the cupboard. “I’d better get on with it. Thanks for the chat, Draco.”

There’s another crash on Draco’s end. “Now she’s in the china cabinet. Merlin - I hope things go alright, Harry. Call me if you want, when you’re back.”

A warm feeling lights its way through Harry’s chest. “Will do.”

\---

  
  


“Are you seeing someone new?” 

Harry almost drops his coffee but manages to catch it at the last minute, which is fortunate as he is the only coffee drinker on staff and Draco kept him up far too late the previous night playing a muggle board game.

“What?” Harry’s hand is burning from the splashed liquid.

“Are you seeing someone?” Maisie has turned her chair to stare him full in the face, her blue eyes calculating. At the desk across from her, Dean flashes Harry a sympathetic but unhelpful smile.

“Why would you even ask me that?”

“Come off it Harry. You’ve skipped out on pub night two weeks in a row, and when you came into work the other day your trousers were all wrinkled.”

“Have you met Harry?” Dean asks, flicking a balled up sticky note through the semi-permanent football goal erected on his desk. “It’s either wrinkled trousers or that manky Bats shirt.”

Harry raises two fingers as he passes Dean’s desk and settles at his own. He takes a lengthy drink from his take away cup and glances at the clock - it’s only half-nine and they aren’t due for their meeting till quarter after. 

The office is set up haphazardly, with desks crammed into the small room wherever they will fit, all in varying states of organisation from messiest (Maisie) to neatest (Dean); Harry’s falls somewhere in-between the two, lots of piles that are mostly organised and only somewhat overwhelming. Like all ministry offices, they are deep underground, with all of the windows being enchanted. The usual pastoral landscape is currently obscured by sheets of cold-looking rain - this is their third week of it, in fact. Harry suspects that someone in magical maintenance is having a bad go of it. He knows there is a wider ministry belief that, as Kinglsey’s pet project, their department has a posh, above-ground office, but the Shacklebolt administration varies greatly from its predecessor. People are promoted based on merit and not who they know or what they happen to donate, and every office is crammed chock-a-block full of second-hand furniture. The only exception to this rule are the computers Harry’s department uses, and these really only exist due to how own connections; Creevy’s Computers has succeeded in bridging the muggle/magical technology gap and Dennis was all too happy to provide whatever they might need at cost.

“So back to my original question.” Maisie drawls, spinning her chair to face Harry. “Who’re you spending all your days off with? Dean says he hasn’t seen you outside of work in months.”

“We went to see Neville at Hogwarts last week.” Harry protests

“To talk about one of his students.” Dean counters. “And you practically ran out the door after.” 

Harry had been planning to meet up with Draco for dinner that evening.

“You didn’t come to my housewarming either.” Maisie wags a finger at him. “My very fit, very single cousin was there. I told her all about you.”

Harry had meant to go, but his original plan of accompanying Draco on some errands first turned into a several-hour adventure. And then they had been starved, and Draco knew a fantastic recipe for yorkshire pudding, and Harry had gotten so caught up in the novelty of watching him prepare it that any thoughts of attending the party were immediately gone from his head.

“And you cancelled on me for the Cannons’ last game.” Dean says, warming to Maisie’s theory. Dean is so amiable and complacent that one is apt to forget how shrewd he can be when the mood takes him; Harry has always appreciated this about his friend, but now he's not so sure.

He’s also not about to admit that he cancelled their standing Quidditch plans to spend the evening helping Draco rearrange his living room. He has a hunch Dean won’t understand the nuances of their new friendship.

“As your boss I’m ordering you to stop this interrogation immediately.” Harry swivels his chair so he’s facing away and faffs around mindlessly with one of the piles on his desk trying to look official and busy.

“As your other boss, I’m going to allow it.” Dean throws a balled up piece of parchment at the back of Harry’s head to accentuate his point.

Maisie, who has worked with the pair of them far too long to outwardly respect either, gives an audible snort of derision and flicks her wand to set the kettle boiling. Before she can speak again, a harried-looking Kinglsey blows through the door carrying a box of pastries. He says a quick hello to Maisie, tosses his jacket over one of the vacant desks, and disappears into the closet they use as a meeting room, calling over his shoulder for Harry and Dean to follow.

\---

They are at Camden Market when they run into Ginny Weasley and Oliver Wood. 

The day is warm but not stifling, and Draco is using it as an opportunity to test out his newly purchased muggle hot weather wear, which consists of belted white pants with the cuffs rolled slightly and a light blue linen button up, unucked in what he hopes is a rakish manner. Harry is distractingly casual in blue denim shorts and a sleeveless black t-shirt, his arms lean and lightly muscled. Draco can practically feel the lascivious thoughts of the man browsing uncomfortably close by while Harry rifles through old vinyl records and cassettes at one of the tables; he puts himself deliberately between them, leaning over to examine the stack that has piled up beside Harry. Their shoulders press together and it’s a risky move - Harry smells good, something spicy - but Draco doesn’t want him to feel uncomfortable when the man who has been ogling him inevitably makes a move. Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself.

“Find anything interesting?” He murmurs, causing Harry to jump.

“A couple of damaged Beatles, of course. Blondie, my mum loved them.” He tilts a record toward Draco, the cover of which features five people, four men lined up one behind the other with a woman in front, her light blonde hair blowing backward and a hard look on her face. “And Queen, one vinyl and one cassette, but that’s kind of a given.”

“I’ve never heard of them.” Draco confesses

“Never? Aren’t you the man who’s obsessed with muggle things? And you’ve never heard of Queen?”

“Isn’t that old music? It has to be from before we were born.”

“It’s  _ timeless _ music, Draco.” Harry leads him over to the record player nearby that is currently playing something bass-heavy, then turns to the young man sitting behind the table. “Can I borrow this a minute, mate? Only my friend here has never heard of Queen.”

When the man nods his ascent, Harry carefully swaps the records and drops the needle. After a moment, the music starts to play. It is men singing acapella in what Draco has to admit is beautiful harmony.

_ Is this the real life? Or is it fantasy? Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality. Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see! _

Then Harry begins to sing along - his voice isn’t good, but it’s clear he enjoys the song and this fact alone makes Draco smile. It isn’t until the man behind the table nonchalantly joins in, pricing items all the while, that Draco begins to wonder if this is a music-based spell of some sort. Harry looks over at the man and grins as a woman browsing cassettes at the front of the stall raises her voice as well. By the chorus Harry has begun to rapidly nod his head back and forth while he plays what Draco thinks is an imaginary guitar.

“So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye? So you think you can love me and leave me to die? Oh baby, can’t do this to me -” He stops singing abruptly, joy draining from his face, gaze caught on something just outside the circle.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asks, following the direction of Harry’s stare to where it ends at the clasped hands of Ginny Weasley and Oliver Wood. They look perfect together, a pair of athletes at the top of their game, and Draco supposes this is why they’re in muggle London: he hasn’t seen anything about their relationship in the Prophet.

Harry stops the record player with a screech that elicits a “Hey!” from the man behind the table.

“Don’t worry, I’ll buy it.” He says distractedly as Ginny and Oliver crowd into the small space.

“Hi Harry.” Ginny’s chin has a confident tilt to it, but her tone wavers.

“Hi.” Harry looks as though his world has abruptly come to an end.

There’s an awkward moment of silence, and then “You remember Oliver from school?” Draco thinks is a stupid question seeing as Wood was Harry’s Quidditch captain for several years, and even Ginny winces at her own words.

Harry’s face goes through several expressions, and when he speaks the emotion is clear in his voice . “I thought you were in France.” 

“Home for the weekend.” Ginny shrugs. “I figured Ron would have told you.”

“No, you got Ron in the divorce remember?” Several of the crates on the table beside them begin to rattle, and Draco puts a steadying hand on Harry’s arm to ground him. 

“Please don’t be like this. I really want us to be able to be friends again - and mum wants you to come back to family dinners.”

“I know she does.  _ Molly _ still talks to me.” Draco can practically feel Harry’s misery.

“Listen, Harry-” Wood begins, as though he’s about to talk sense into the man while simultaneously holding hands with his ex-wife.

“Don’t, Wood.” Harry snarls. “Don’t try it with me.”

“This isn’t going anywhere.” Ginny focuses her gaze on Harry, expression soft. “I think, given some distance and introspection, you’ll realize why we had to split up. I love you, but it took me a long time to realise that it was familial love and -”

“Perhaps this isn’t the place.” Draco interjects, hoping to spare Harry the humiliation of having her air their marital issues in public.

Ginny looks as though she’s about to argue and then seems to think better of it. “I’m here when you’re ready to talk to me, Harry.” Her gaze flits over to Draco. “Nice seeing you, Malfoy.”

Once they’re well out of earshot, Draco turns to Harry. “Are you alright?”

“No, I’m not fucking alright.” Harry snarls. “I’m- I - I can’t be here!” He kicks a crate of records and whirls around, disappearing into the crowd so quickly Draco has no time to follow.

“Your boyfriend promised he’d buy that record he damaged.” Says the man from behind the table.

Draco doesn’t bother to argue the semantics of his relationship with Harry. “Yeah, alright, I’ll take it and the other ones he pulled out as well.”

  
  


**Harry Potter**

10:10pm: sorry about today.

10:11pm: i haven’t seen her since she left and it hurt more than i thought.

10:11pm: especially because she’s seeing Wood. he’s ridiculously fit isn’t he?

10:11pm: i mean, in your opinion? as a man-fancier?

10:12pm: anyway, i apologise for how i behaved.

**Draco Malfoy**

10:15pm: Don’t lose sleep over it.

10:15pm: I found your public performance much more alarming

10:17pm: Also, speaking as your local “man-fancier” (Merlin, Potter) Wood is okay if you don’t mind coming second to a sport your entire relationship.

10:17pm: I prefer a man whose personality extends further than his Quidditch position.

10:30pm: Compassion and a good sense of humour are much more interesting, for a start.


End file.
